


The Mostly Normal Childhood of a Not-Antichrist

by BewareTheIdesOfMarchYall



Series: Dream SMP Good Omens [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Good Omens AU, Local child raised by four cryptids, Phil isn't the best father in this but he also isn't a bad father, Phil's B+ Parenting, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Strangers to Son, he's trying, part 2 of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdesOfMarchYall/pseuds/BewareTheIdesOfMarchYall
Summary: Tommy grows up with a mostly normal childhood. He goes to school, tries to make friends, and has a family that loves him.Most kids are being watched for supernatural abilities, right?OR: Sometimes a family is you, your adopted son, your slightly murderous best friend, and the guardian demon watching over you.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream SMP Good Omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2171535
Comments: 21
Kudos: 333





	1. Phil Reluctantly Walks Into Caring

**Author's Note:**

> I would recommend reading the first part of the series to know what's going on, but you can read this without context as well.

Phil didn't care about Tommy in the beginning, but caring was unavoidable.

During the first couple of days, he looked in the mirror and decided to make some rules for himself for this whole situation.

1\. He wasn't going to resent the kid. Tommy hadn't asked to be born, or for the circumstances that led to his adoption, and it would be both unfair and unproductive for Phil to waste his time being mad at a literal baby.

2\. He couldn't trust the kid either. Considering who'd asked him to do the adopting in the first place, there was obviously a larger game or strategy at play. He hadn't entirely ruled out his "son" being a changeling or something that would vanish like smoke if he admitted he loved it.

3\. He wasn't going to let Techno stab the child.

4\. He wasn't going to be a bad father. He'd make sure the kid got food, shelter, whatever he needed to survive and maybe be happy. He'd try his best at all times.

5\. If the kid was human, he'd have a human childhood. Certain things would have to be stored in Phil's attic (or maybe Technoblade's basement), and Tommy would never need to know.

Baby proofing the house took a while. A lot of Phil's stuff was either a) sharp, b) explosive, c) paranormal, or d) all three somehow. He rolled up his sleeves and sorted the clutter into four major categories:

**Category 1:** Eh, he's a baby, he won't notice a little hellfire.

**Category 2:** Store in the attic, too dangerous to be kept around a kid, but not paranormal enough to attract attention (this was where the vast array of knives went).

**Category 3:** Techno will squirrel this away somewhere out of sight.

**Category 4:** Should have been thrown out a century ago anyway,  _ why do we even have that bayonet _ .

His house actually looked nicer afterwards, but he'd never admit it. He didn't live in places for them to look "nice", he lived in places to make "nice" neighborhoods feel perplexed and unsettled.  Phil was the cryptid old man that lived on the end of the street that everyone avoided. Local children made up outlandish stories about him, saying that he was an escaped murderer or a warlock.

The first one was only half off. He wouldn't be able to honestly say he'd  _ never _ done a murder, but they'd never been able to catch him. Hence, no reason to escape from anywhere.

The point was, he had a reputation as being spooky, and he was fine with that! Having a house that people could actually navigate and a baby in his arms was going to ruin his anti-public image.  _ This child is going to make me respectable. Dammit. _

Raising a kid took up an unreasonable amount of time. 

Babies needed so many things, and so much attention, and just a lot of investment. Phil hadn't gotten much notice to prepare for this (half an hour of warning, tops), and he still had a mortgage to pay. Illegally selling counterfeit holy water and things along that line to the morons who called themselves Witch-Finders paid most of the bills, but he still worked a couple of part-time jobs (definitely not bounty hunting). Now that taking care of Tommy was part of his schedule, he wasn't sure if he'd lose his sanity before or after the end of the month.

His saving grace arrived two weeks after the madness began.

It was around three in the morning, but Phil wasn't asleep.  _ Of course not! Sleep is a thing for other people! Lucky bastards who don't have a tornado siren mistakenly put in the form of a child. _ He was pretty sure that he would reap a soul just to stop the sound of crying.

Out of the blue, the doorbell rang.  _ Who the fuck goes to people's houses at three in the morning? _ Phil cautiously walked towards the door, sliding a knife into one of his cloak sleeves and holding Tommy with the other arm. He glanced through the window at the top of the door.

There was a man in a yellow sweater and a beanie, with a guitar on his back, on his doorstep.

_ Does he think he can rob me? Am I getting robbed by a hipster? _

The burglar (?) looked up to the glass and grinned in a slightly Cheshire cat way. He raised a tray of wrapped (??) Hot Pockets to Phil's field of vision, saying something he couldn't quite understand through the glass. 

Eventually, Phil's curiosity got the better of him, or maybe his wish for Hot Pockets, or maybe he just wanted something interesting to happen. Either way, he opened the door.

The guy breezed past him into the house, still holding the tray. He turned around in a circle, half admiring, half investigating the room. When he reached the 180-degree mark and faced Phil again, he held out his hand in a formal handshake manner. 

"I'm your new neighbor, and I thought I'd drop by in a totally non-suspicious way! My name is Wilbur Soot.". Phil stared, not returning the handshake.

"If you're my neighbor, where do you live?"

"Three houses down, the house with the blue windows!"

"The haunted one? The one that burned down ten years ago?"

"I guess that's why I got it so cheap. Anyway, is this your child?". Wilbur shoved the Hot Pockets into Phil's arms, getting him to let go of Tommy due to a lack of space. 

He could have let go of the knife instead, but he didn't quite trust his new neighbor enough to hand him a weapon. He seemed well-meaning, but he also had a vaguely "car salesman about to scam you into buying a jar of sand instead of a pickup truck" feeling about him.

Still, Phil was grateful to have someone besides him deal with the sobbing baby for five minutes, so he went to microwave the gift. 

While in the kitchen, he looked out the window to the house three doors down. Maybe the baby had driven him mad, but he was reasonably sure that the normal-seeming house with blue windows had been nothing but wreckage two weeks ago. 

Eventually, he shrugged it off.  _ I've had stranger neighbors. _ The microwave beeped, and he removed the food. He did a few basic tests for poison and the like, before cutting into it.  _ These aren't bad. I can solidly count microwavable food as one of the things that humans have improved on. _

All of a sudden, Phil noticed two things: A noise, and the worrying absence of another noise. The soft sound of a guitar played, echoing through the house. He couldn't name the haunting tune, but he knew that this wasn't the first time he heard it.

More importantly, he couldn't hear Tommy crying anymore.

He rushed back to the living room in a panic. Wilbur was sitting on the couch, calmly playing the same song. Phil held the knife near his throat.

" _ Where's the kid? _ ". The musician looked up, completely unfazed.

"Hello there. Tommy's in the crib, no need to stab me.". Tommy was indeed in the crib. Somehow, he was quietly lying there with an almost angelic expression on his face.

"I started playing my guitar, and the music calmed him down a little.". 

Phil looked back to Wilbur.  _ He shows up with food, he gets Tommy to stop crying for once, he seems like a decent person- _

"You wouldn't happen to be our guardian angel, would you?". He said this mostly as a way to apologize for the knife thing. He didn't think the joke was actually funny.

Wilbur, however, thought it was hilarious, and laughed for way longer than was necessary. When Phil questioned why, he simply said something along the lines of "dramatic irony".

Despite a bit of a tense meeting, Will was invaluable during the years to follow.

Phil needed someone to watch Tommy for most of every day.  He had three options every time: Technoblade (who wasn't the babysitting type), his other new neighbor who went by the name of  _ Schlatt _ (would sell the baby for a bottle of Jack Daniels and also was probably in the mafia), and Wilbur Soot (a strange, but helpful and non-homicidal person). 

9 times out of 10, Wilbur stepped in to look after the kid or do whatever else Phil needed.

Which was good, because Phil wasn't able to be around a lot of the time. He had a job, and a life, and a secret identity to maintain. 

He missed a lot of firsts with Tommy, from first words to first steps to teaching him to ride a bike. 

Not that he needed to be there for those things. The boy seemed happy with the way things were, looking up to Wilbur and Technoblade like older brothers and running around the house with a lively grin on his face. It had never been in the agreement that Phil had to care  _ about _ him as well as care  _ for _ him, and from a practical standpoint it was probably better for him to stay cautious with his care anyway.

Still.

If he got a chance to spend extra time with Tommy, he'd take it in a heartbeat. They watched movies together every Saturday, and though Phil found it hard to concentrate with the boy talking through the whole movie, he still looked forward to those Saturday nights.

Tommy liked Greek myths, and superheroes, and killing imaginary enemies with sticks, and stealing the antique record player from the attic (which he wasn't supposed to do considering how fragile it was, but Phil let him anyway). 

He was more than just a loud kid, he was a creative and daring one, even if he was a little shit sometimes. If Phil could take any credit for him, he'd feel proud.

There wasn't any one moment that could be pointed at as the moment when Phil started caring. 

His care grew slowly but surely, maybe starting when he first looked into the mirror that day. There was no definite moment that flipped a switch in his brain from "Let's just keep him not dead" to "Yep, that's a son". 

However, there was a moment when he realized how much care had accidentally been allowed to grow.

It was a small and ordinary thing, like most. Phil had gotten home late from his job, which was definitely not bounty hunting, and hung his hat on the wall. There was a muffled sneeze from the shadows under the stairs. Two raccoon-like eyes (belonging to a ten-year-old who thought he was being  _ very _ subtle) stared at him from the darkness.

"Tommy, are you lurking ominously again?". Tommy crept out from under the staircase, trying to look natural and like he'd never done anything wrong in his life, ever.

" _ Hey, dad! _ I was just getting a glass of water."

"Under the stairs?". There was a pause.

" _ Yes! _ ". Phil raised an eyebrow, skeptical. After a few seconds, Tommy sighed and told the truth.

"Fine. I was waiting for you to get home."

"It's a school night."

"I know, I know, that's what Wil said. I just learned some really cool stuff in history class, and wanted to share it with you! We're learning about a bunch of revolutions, and there's a lot of stuff that wasn't in Hamilton. Like there was this woman named Sybil Ludington, and she rode  _ 40 miles _ to warn people, and then she-"

"Toms, I'd love to hear all about her later, but it's late and you have to go to school tomorrow."

"Can I just talk to you for five more minutes?"

"I mean-"

" _ Please? _ ". Phil considered it. After a few seconds, he pulled up the kitchen chair.

"Alright. Go ahead.". His son bounced into an animated explanation of everything on his mind at the moment, which didn't make complete sense to him, but he paid attention anyway.

Apparently, he'd made a friend at school that day (and possibly broken into the science lab? The details were a bit unclear). 

Halfway between one word and the next, something hit Phil. Literally and metaphorically.

Literally, a frog leapt out of Tommy's sleeve (seriously,  _ what happened in the science lab? _ ) onto Phil's face.

Metaphorically, a realization came along like a firm tap on the shoulder.

_ I haven't been cautious about care at all. Not for years.  _

_ And I don't want to be. _

The pre-existing warmth of caring about his son was joined by cold terror.  _ What if something happens to him? What if people use him against me? What's the price for this? _

Tommy looked at him, worried.

"It's just a frog, his name is Henry the Third and he's nice. Please don't ask what happened to Henry the First and Henry the Second.". Phil agreed that Henry the Third was a very nice frog, but it had been fifteen minutes and he ought to be going to bed, right? 

Tommy eventually agreed and ran upstairs, leaving Phil on his own in the kitchen. 

He dropped his head into his hands.

_ Did he make me agree to take my son in just to make me lose him later? What's going to happen in six years? Are we safe? _

_ What will I do if he gets hurt? _

_ He didn't dissolve into smoke. He's still here for now, he's still Tommy. _

_ I'm not losing anyone. Not me, not Technoblade, probably not Wilbur, and not my son. _

Alright. Some plans were going to have to be made.


	2. Technoblade is Forcibly Dragged Into Caring

Technoblade was determined not to care about Tommy. He lost that particular battle.

"Let me get something clear. I'm not sure why you're here, or what you're planning, but I haven't survived as long as I have by giving strangers the benefit of the doubt.". Technoblade paced around his opponent, making every word clear.

"You may have been able to pull the wool over Phil's eyes, but I see through this whole game. You think you can show up in our home, learn our secrets, and report back to your boss, right? Well, mark my words: I'm going to find out your plan, I'm going to track down the guy you're working for, and I'm going to get you out of our lives.". He glanced back.

"Are you even listening to me?".  The opponent stared blankly at him through crib bars. Technoblade folded his arms.

"I'm starting to think you might actually be a month-old baby.". Phil walked into the room, looking exasperated. 

"Techno, are you interrogating the child again?"

"Listen, this orphaned child is hiding something, I know it."

"He didn't crack the first seven times you tried this. Just give it a rest, mate."

"I think I have the perfect negotiation strategy this time."

"Which is?"

"The threat of violence. Allow me to demonstrate.". He removed a sword from the wall and held it over the crib.

" _ Who do you work for? _ ". Tommy looked at the blade like it was the coolest thing he'd seen in his young life and reached for it. Techno held it out of the child's reach.  Phil, unamused, swooped in, took the sword out of his hands, and half-led half-pushed him out of the house.

"I think that's enough for today."

"But-"

"Nope!”

"Just promise me you won't trust him."

"I already don't, but it's my job to keep Tommy away from danger, and I think a sword qualifies."

"I wasn't going to stab a baby. It was an intimidation tactic, I was  _ intimidating _ the baby.".

Phil apparently thought that was a ridiculous thing to do, and he closed the door, leaving Techno on the porch.

The new neighbors were out in their yards. 

The surly one two houses down with the business suit flipped him off as a way of greeting, while the strange guitar guy waved cheerfully, "accidentally" pointing a garden hose at the businessman in the process. 

Technoblade hadn't bothered to learn either of their names. He neither liked nor trusted them, but they weren't the most important issue at hand. 

_ No, the most important thing right now is figuring out how to end the Tommy Problem, so me and Phil can be unbothered and safe. I look after my family and no one else. _

_ His days of living in our home are numbered. _

Now, knowing your enemy is crucial to any conflict.  So, when Technoblade wasn't maintaining the old secret identity, exercising Steve, or looking after his collections of books and bones, he was gathering intel. 

Unfortunately for him, babies were perhaps the most boring creatures in existence. They couldn't speak, they couldn't move around much, they didn't have any kind of personal philosophy to argue against. 

Even after two years of gathering information, he wasn't able to learn much about the thing's strengths, weaknesses, and motivations besides the basics:

**Strengths:** Phil's protecting him and might be a bit attached.

**Weaknesses:** A literal baby, untrained in combat.

**Motivations:** ??? An enigma.

He was a patient man, but two years of learning nothing was testing his patience. This was the only reason why he agreed to look after the toddler for an afternoon.

Phil dropped Tommy off at Techno's house with very little prior warning. Techno hadn't been expecting to ever have to look after a toddler, even for a couple of hours, and he reacted to the idea with reluctance.

"Why can't Wilbur do this again?"

“Because I’m leaving to go look for him. I had a concerning phone call, and Wilbur might be in trouble with the law or something worse. It’s a long story, but could you please watch Tommy for a little while?”. Technoblade tried not to show his distaste for the idea of babysitting, and agreed. 

_ All I have to do is keep him alive and unharmed for a couple of hours, hopefully learning more about what he is and why we have him. I can do that. _

As soon as Phil left, he found a notebook and pen. He was going to take copious notes to make this worth it.

**_1:32 PM:_ ** _ The kid has just been released into my house. He immediately tried to fall down the basement stairs. I stopped him, but he's on the loose again. _

**_1:45 PM:_ ** _ Note to self, add Unlimited Energy to the strengths column. _

**_2:00 PM:_ ** _ Another round of  _ **_are all children like this, or is it a supernatural thing_ ** _! He apparently has the capacity to scream for five minutes straight without breathing. This is because he's upset that I won't let him on the basement stairs, which he has decided is the best part of the house because I don't want him there. _

**_2:04 PM:_ ** _ On the loose once more. _

**_2:15 PM:_ ** _ It's like someone released a miniature earthquake into my house. This thing is chaos incarnate loose on the mortal plane. _

**_2:28 PM:_ ** _ he may or may not have a knife _

**_2:29 PM:_ ** _ Crisis averted, he does not have a knife anymore. _

**_2:33 PM:_ ** _ It has now been over an hour. The child is alive, my sanity is not. _

**_2:46 PM:_ ** _ Steve likes him. He's an impeccable judge of character most of the time, wonder what went wrong. This would be kind of sweet, if it weren't for the fact that Phil might see that I googled if polar bears ate children. _

**_2:47 PM:_ ** _ Just to clarify: Steve has not eaten the child at the time of this entry. _

**_4:19 PM:_ ** _ You know what really annoys me? The voices haven't helped at all with this. I'd assume one of you would have some helpful advice, but it's just "blood for the blood god" and "E". I know that I didn't become the blood god by saying "Yeah, that seems like a reasonable amount of blood", but there are other things in life. _

**_4:23 PM:_ ** _ I think I finally figured out something. The kid likes fire and (again, is that normal for human children??) and I'm exploding things at a safe distance. He's entertained, I'm getting rid of my spare Molotov cocktails, this is fine.  _

Techno put the notebook aside and lit another fuse. 

He looked up to the window, where Steve was curled up around Tommy, stopping him from going anywhere. He casually got out of the way of the explosion, let it happen, and ran back to the window nook in the house. Tommy was still grinning and staring at the crater in wonder.

_ I'm not completely failing at this. _

At that moment, the doorbell rang.

Techno wasn't planning on answering it, but a certain guardian demon walked unsteadily into the house anyway.

Wilbur looked somewhat dazed, like he'd been through hell and back in the last three hours. One of his hands was hidden in his coat, but Technoblade was pretty sure he was covering a wound. 

Tommy looked even more excited about seeing him than he was about the explosions, and he ran over, clinging on to Wilbur. Despite the state he was in, he smiled down at the toddler.

Techno waited to the side for an explanation, not sure of the right way to ask someone if they'd been in an alleyway shootout recently. Eventually, Wilbur looked up.

"If you see a man in a sonic onesie, kill him on sight."

"Heh?"

"Just some advice. Anyway, thank you so much for taking care of Tommy for these couple of hours, but I'm back."

"Wilbur, from what I can see you're going to pass out in five minutes. You're not going to look after a toddler."

"Excuse me, I haven't slept since the 19th century and I'm not starting now."

" _ What? _ "

"Ignore that. I sleep as much as humans do. The point is, I'm here to relieve you from your post.". Technoblade thought about it. 

_ On the one hand, the chaos gremlin would be removed from my house. On the other hand, it's just my luck that someone only shows up once I figured out how to kind of deal with the situation. Also, that guy's at least on Death's lawn if not his doorstep. _

"I don't need you to swoop in and take the credit, but thanks. I've been handling this just fine on my own.". A puzzled expression flickered on Wilbur's face, but he eventually nodded.

"Fine. I guess."

"When you pass out in three minutes, try not to do it in the potato garden or the bush."

"Not going to do that, but sure thing.". With that, Wilbur slowly got Tommy to let go of him and left into the evening. Technoblade turned to the child.

"Alright, let's explode something else."

A little later that night, a voicemail was sent to Phil.

"If you're still looking for Wilbur, you can stop. He's back, and he's not dead. I mean, he's not exactly dead. Apparently, he got into a gunfight with Sonic the Hedgehog. He's in", and there was a muffled crash, followed by a long sigh from Techno as he stared at the wall in disappointment.

"He's in the bush. Please collect him. Also, please collect your actual child, he's tried to chew on a skull. Thanks.".

Since the first time looking after Tommy hadn't been a complete disaster, Techno didn't object when he was needed again. After all, the more he learned, the more he theoretically grew closer to bringing their lives back to normalcy. 

So, he was like 8% of Tommy's childhood. He was no Wilbur, but the kid was still part of his life. 

Little traces of Tommy were everywhere in his house, except for the basement, which remained under lock and key. The walls were scribbled on, the fridge raided too many times to count, and action figures hidden in every corner.

Whenever he got the chance, he'd find a way to test the kid for some kind of supernatural ability. So far, Tommy was able to leave salt circles, touch iron and silver, didn't care when he cooked eggshells, and could absolutely enter places without being invited (in fact, that seemed like his favorite thing to do).

Technoblade was certain that Tommy wasn't human, but he had to admit that the likelihood of him being a spy was slim. He seemed like a perfectly regular child, or as regular as the circumstances allowed. 

Techno had met his share of liars and actors in his day (hell, his neighbors fit the criteria), but he'd never come across anything that could tell a lie that convincing.

One would expect the years to fly by for someone like Technoblade, since he'd seen so many of them. However, time had never sped or slowed for him. The years always felt like the exact same length of time.

Still, it was odd how fast Tommy grew up.

The years still felt like plain old years, no faster or slower, but it was a surprise when Technoblade realized that the kid was seven already.

Tommy liked comic books where the heroes won, so Techno hadn't expected him to like Greek myths. He'd only read them to him because he'd been demanding a story, and it was either the book of mythology or Sun Tzu's The Art of War. 

Seeing as Tommy was a second-grader, military tactics went a bit over his head.

"So, Hades decided to let Orpheus leave the underworld with Eurydice under one condition: He couldn't look back to see if she was following him. If he doubted the gods and looked behind him before they both reached the sun, he would lose her forever."

"That's dumb."

"The gods don't like being doubted."

"If he goes into the underworld to get her back, they should be able to leave without some trick!"

"Yeah, the gods are also jerks sometimes.". Tommy curled up on the couch, trying to turn the page to find out what would happen next. Techno had hoped that a story would calm him down, but his energy seemed even higher than before, since he was invested in the plot.

"Do they make it?"

"We're getting there. Orpheus walked back through Hades-"

"He walked  _ through Hades? _ "

"Hades the place, not Hades the god. He named his kingdom after himself."

"That's not a good way to name a kingdom. I wouldn't want to live in a place named Tommyland, even if I did have a country. I should have a country."

"Tommy, you don't want to run a government."

"It isn't a government if it's all me!"

"That-That's absolute monarchy. That's worse."

"If you could, would you clone yourself? I would. I'd have a clone country."

"Do you want to find out what happens next in the story or not?". Tommy quickly nodded, and let Techno continue.

"Orpheus walked back through Hades, not knowing if Eurydice was behind him or not. He walked through the Elysian Fields, and the pits of Tartarus, and the endless wasteland of the shades of Asphodel."

"What's Asphodel?"

"Asphodel is where they put souls who weren't good or bad, but just kind of there. It's like the ancient Greek version of purgatory. They just stand in a meadow for all of eternity there."

"Sounds boring."

"It is. Anyway, Orpheus walked through all of Hades's kingdom. He could only hear his own footsteps and his breathing, and had no way of telling if Eurydice had followed. When he crossed the river Styx, he asked the ferryman if there was anyone behind him, but Charon refused to answer him. He got to the other side of the river, and all he had to do was walk through the tunnel to the surface."

"So he makes it?"

" _ We're getting there _ . Orpheus was almost to the surface, when things started to go badly for him in a special way. See, most Greek heroes are stopped by their hubris, but-"

"What's hubris?"

"Overconfidence. Arrogance. The type of person who'd try to take things from the gods instead of asking."

"Like Wilbur!"

" _ Exactly _ like Wilbur. But Orpheus was just built different. Instead of being overconfident, his fatal flaw was doubting too much. He trusted no one, especially not himself. So, just as he was about to step into the sun, he turned around to check if Eurydice was behind him. 

And she was. She'd been behind him the whole time, but when he gave in to his doubts and turned to look, she disappeared forever.". Technoblade closed the book. Tommy was quiet, picking at a loose thread on a cushion.

"Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's basically the story."

"That's not fair. He goes down into the scariest place in the cosmos to get back the person he loves, and then loses because he turns around a couple feet from the finish line?"

"He gave into his fatal flaw. That's how most of these work."

"Hades probably knew that was his fatal flaw. And he chose that test to make him lose.". Techno blinked. He'd never thought about it that way.

"I mean, that's probably true. Like I said, the gods are jerks.". Tommy seemed disappointed by that, slumping and burying his face in Steve's fur.

"Do any of these have happy endings?". Technoblade looked through the table of contents. 

_ Achilles dies. Jason dies. Bellerophon dies. Atalanta got turned into a lion. Heracles and Icarus and Meleager all die. Even Theseus dies in disgrace. Seems like everyone dies, except- _

"Perseus turns out okay.". Tommy brightened up a bit at that.

"Can you tell me about him?". 

Technoblade found the right page and began telling the story of the man who got to go on a quest and survive. The whole time, Tommy had his head on his shoulder, staring at the illustrations. Techno's arm fell asleep after a few minutes, but he neither noticed nor minded.

If anyone asked Techno if he cared about Tommy, he'd laugh in their face.

_ Of course he didn't! There was still a plan to get rid of him, it was just....delayed. _ Once he grew up and went to college, he'd technically be out of the house. Which meant that the plan would still have paid off. Still a partial victory on his part.

Anyway, he'd say in very clear terms that he didn't care about Tommy. He was just some kid.

A kid that spent a lot of time at his house. A kid that he'd seen grow up. A kid that obviously cared about him.

The same kid that he taught how to throw a punch when he got into a fight at school, and which heroes corresponded to which constellations, and to call him whenever he needed help.

He'd say that he didn't care about that kid. But out of the many liars he'd met over his long life, he was one of the worst.  And when Phil called him three years later with a plan to make sure that Tommy stayed safe, he agreed, even though it would inconvenience him a fair bit.

Because above all else, Technoblade looked after his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of this fic is going to be Wilbur's perspective on all of this, hope you've enjoyed so far!


	3. Wilbur Pushes His Way Past The Line To Care About Tommy First

Wilbur didn't expect to care about Tommy, but he accepted it pretty quickly.

There wasn't much to bring with him the day he moved to town. After all, it wasn't like he'd actually need to renovate the house. 

He stood on the curb in front of the remnants of the house that burned down a decade ago, suitcase in hand.  _ A bit of a fixer-upper, but I can work with this. _ After checking to make sure there weren't any nosy neighbors watching, he reached out to the debris. 

The charred wood and scattered bricks twitched for a few seconds, before assuming the appearance of a lovely home. A doorbell, a porch, windows in a shade of cobalt blue, and above all else the distinct feeling that Wilbur's house (and by extension, Wilbur) had been around on the block for ages.

Even if the neighbors didn't know who he was or what he did, they would have to struggle to think of him as a stranger. And they had their own petty human lives, which didn't contain the time or energy to waste worrying about a charming new addition to the neighborhood.

Wilbur strolled into his perfectly average house, plans whirring in his head.

_ Showtime. _

There were quite a few houses on the block, but Wilbur was only focusing on a group of three.

House #1: Tommy's home, three houses away. A simple house that contained the most important person in the world and his intimidating dad.

House #2: That Weird Guy's house, two houses away. Wilbur had no idea who That Weird Guy was, but he was apparently close friends with Tommy's dad, and even more intimidating. Wilbur wasn't sure why the kid was surrounded by people that made him worry for his life despite being immortal.

House #3: Schlatt's house, sadly next door. He didn't need additional proof that god hated him, but apparently they'd wanted to make it even clearer.

A week or so after he'd gotten settled into his new home, Wilbur decided to go outside to get a better look at the streetlamps and the night sky while trying to find his plan. He was feeling surprisingly positive about the whole thing. Soon, he'd be changing the fate of the world.

If this didn't get him remembered after it all, nothing else would.

A hacking cough came from the porch next door, reminding him that he wasn't the only supernatural being on the block. Wilbur took a breath, trying to be civil. 

_ Don't get distracted from the most important mission of your life because you want to murder a goat. Just walk on by. Just keep walking, and don't acknowledge his existence. You don't know him. _

However, his unwanted neighbor had no qualms about acknowledging Wilbur's existence, and he'd only taken a couple of steps onto the street before Schlatt called out to him. 

"Well, would you look at that: You’re finally out of the house! This is more of a miracle than anything I’ve done.". Wilbur turned around, counting down the seconds until he could not be where he was, having this conversation.

"Schlatt, we're supposed to be undercover."

"Oh, my bad. Guess these random humans will never get to know our big secrets.". Schlatt raised his voice slightly, yelling to the deserted cul-de-sac.

"Would be a  _ shame _ if someone found out  _ that guy over there is a demon! _ Yeah, the jerk with the beanie's from Hell, and I'm an angel, and we're only pretending to be human because (get this) one of the little tykes on your block is actually the antichrist!". Wilbur pinched the bridge of his nose. Was it possible to get headaches when his mind was only semi-corporeal?

"Could you kindly shut the fuck up?"

"Nope.".  _ I mean, that's kind of on me for phrasing it as a question. _

Schlatt took a break from the Annoying Wilbur Show ( _ airs all times that he has the poor idea to go outside _ ) to dig into more of his tomato sauce and meat wraps. He raised the snack like it was a holy relic. Wilbur supposed that if Schlatt really wanted to, he could make it into one.

"These are Hot Pockets. I was actually planning on taking a few over to you-know-who's family as a housewarming gift, build up good favor, you know?". Suddenly, the plan clicked in Wilbur's head. He tried to keep his face neutral and concerned, with no hint of a smirk.

"Hot Pockets? I mean, are you sure?"

"What's wrong with Hot Pockets? And choose your next words carefully.". Wilbur leaned against a streetlamp, sighing in assumed pity.

"There's nothing  _ wrong _ with Hot Pockets per se. They're fine, I guess.". Schlatt sputtered, offended beyond belief.

"Fine?  _ Fine? _ You see before you the one thing that has made me reconsider starting the apocalypse, and you're like "eh. fine". Fuck you and your family and whatever you call taste buds.  _ Fine? _ I'd tell you to go to hell, but that doesn't work, so go to  _ New Jersey _ you son of a-". 

This continued on for a while.

Wilbur nodded along to the tirade, maintaining a poker face. All the while, he telekinetically inched the tray of wrapped (?) Hot Pockets towards him. The tray crept ever closer, past Schlatt's lawn chair, past Schlatt's nightmarish garden gnomes, past the freshly dug earth that definitely had a body buried under it, until it was finally within reach.

Without listening to another word, Wilbur grabbed the Hot Pockets and ran for the hills, easily outrunning the outraged angel.  _ Sorry, Schlatt, but you're going to have to try harder to win this game. _

He sprinted to House #1 and rang the doorbell, trying to look non-suspicious. After about a minute, he got an answer from the selected father (Phil, his name was Phil). 

Wilbur smiled brightly and walked into the house.

The initial meeting went great, putting the whole "getting threatened with a knife" thing aside. 

Phil seemed to appreciate the Hot Pockets and company, and Wilbur could confidently guess that he'd managed to secure a place in helping him out in the future. 

Besides being good for the plan in general, he'd liked spending time around Phil and Tommy. Wilbur didn't get to talk to people a lot, and when he did it was normally trying to scam them out of their soul. So, this was a welcome break. 

And his heart  _ definitely _ hadn't been warmed when Tommy had fallen asleep to the sound of his guitar. Nope. Absolutely none of that.

Phil evidently didn't see child raising as his first priority, and Wilbur found more chances to volunteer to watch his kid than he expected. At times, he felt like he was just as much of a parent to Tommy as Phil, if not more. 

Which wasn't to say that he felt any bitterness about that. Quite the contrary. Watching after Tommy was one of the best parts of his day. 

Despite being a baby, the kid already had so much personality, and his little face would light up whenever Wilbur went  ~~ home ~~ to House #1.

When Wilbur held the baby in his arms, he really did feel like a guardian. The phrase "guardian angel" had stung, but he did want to shield Tommy from harm or becoming anything like him when he grew up.

Still, it's not like his heart was at all warmed when he held Tommy in his arms- _ Oh, screw it. _ His heart  _ was _ warmed. He happened to care about the adorable baby that he spent a lot of time with. Go figure. 

Caring wasn't interfering with his job as a protector, informant for Hell, and general influencer of evil. So, there was no purpose in denying it.

Besides the unexpected emotional attachment, nothing really changed about the general routine.

His days consisted of maintaining the glamours around his house, reading his books, writing (it turns out that an approaching Armageddon worked wonders for deadline motivation), staring at the ceiling and wondering why God had forsaken him, looking after Tommy, talking with Phil (and on occasion, That Weird Guy), giving the Lords of Hell their required project updates, and, occasionally, almost getting murdered.

One key example of the "almost getting murdered" thing happened when Tommy was around two years old.

He'd just gotten back from another meeting with the Lords ( _ yes, Tommy is still alive. no, he isn't evil yet, seeing as he's two years old. no, that wasn't sarcasm. no, I'd actually prefer for you to not kill me for my insolence. _ Same old stuff.). 

It was a cold yet sunny winter afternoon when Wilbur stepped out of the office building and back into the mortal world. As he made his way towards the bus station, his phone rang.

The call was from Phil, and he moved away from the middle of the sidewalk to take it, leaning against the brick wall of a building next to an alleyway.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Will, a job came up tonight without much notice. Would you be able to watch Tommy around 7-ish?"

"Sure, I can do that."

"Great, you're a lifesaver. One last thing: If Techno decides to question you about your motives and backstory, don't take it personally, he's just in one of those suspicious phases lately. Okay?". 

Wilbur would have loved to agree, nonchalantly laugh it off, and quickly go over his backstory in his head again. Unfortunately for him, there was a weapon aimed at him from the alleyway.

It would be a funny sight to the passerby to see a normal-seeming person cower in the face of a spray bottle. 

Of course, the average passerby wasn't a demon.  9 times out of 10, when a spray bottle was pointed at a demon, the spray bottle was full of holy water and the demon was in for a bad time.

Wilbur stood there, frozen. The alleyway was shady, and he couldn't quite make out who was aiming the bottle at him. Phil's voice echoed out of his phone.

"Will? Are you still there?". Wilbur tried to keep his voice steady, and he quickly responded.

"I'm here. I got it. I'll be ho-I'll be back soon. There is no need to call me back. Goodbye."

"What's that supposed to mean?". He tapped the screen, ending the call.  _ Please, don't have me die right now. It would be annoying, not to mention narratively unsatisfying. _

He looked into the alleyway, addressing whoever had seen fit to threaten him today.

"Hi there. I'm guessing that spray bottle isn't full of Sprite.". A man in a blue onesie ( _ Sonic the Hedgehog cosplay? _ ) emerged from the shadows.

"Yep. I mean, it technically was Sprite until it went through the blessing process, but it's a lot holier now.". Wilbur blinked a few times in confusion.

" _ Connor? _ "

"Hey."

"What's with the outfit? Why are you threatening me in an alley?  _ What's with the outfit? _ "

"Don't mock the outfit, I have it on good faith that this is the height of human fashion."

"Let me guess. Schlatt told you that.". The onesie-clad angel stood there, realizing that taking the advice of that particular coworker probably wasn't the smartest decision he'd ever made. Eventually, he shrugged it off.

"Well, I feel resplendent, so this is a win in my book.". Wilbur tapped the bricks on the wall, almost playing a rhythm.

"Listen, Connor, if you were just going to kill me with that thing you would have already pulled the trigger. Why are you here?". Connor looked a little sheepish about the whole thing.

"The higher-ups thought that I should make you an offer you can't refuse. Basically, some intern had the bright idea that we should have Hell's guardian either agree to spy for us or die."

"You're suggesting that I become a double agent?"

"Yeah. Or die, whichever is your preference."

"I think your higher-ups underestimate my importance here. Killing me won't slow our side down by much. They'll just send another guy, and you'll have to spend more time in unpleasant alleyways."

"And someday they'll send a guy who takes our offer. Trust me, we've been planning this ever since we realized Schlatt was going to be useless down there.". Wilbur thought about it. 

_ Killing god obviously matters more than prolonging my life. And I'm a good actor, but I don't have enough time in my life to be a triple agent. _

"Come on, Connor. I thought you were one of the decent ones.". Connor half-heartedly kicked at a puddle. His face was reluctant, but he still aimed the spray  bottle with precision.

"Please tell me you're going to accept the offer?"

"You've known me for years. What do you think?"

"From what Schlatt has told me, you're too stubborn for your own good.". Wilbur laughed at that.

"Yeah. So the real question is: Can you murder me, Connor?". Connor shuffled, and the spray bottle wavered. Wilbur continued talking.

"I'm actually interested to see what you do next. You've got my full attention.". The two of them stood there, completely still. Finally, Connor pointed the spray bottle away from Wilbur and aimed for the sky.

"You've kind of made this whole thing weird, man. So, I'll give you a 15-second head start.".

Wilbur didn't waste time thanking him, and he sprinted away. He fled through shadows and smoke, barely remembering to keep some trace of a physical body. He scrambled his way towards the bus station, reaching the glass doors. 

However, that was where his luck ran out.

"Sorry, Wilbur. That's the power of the Sonic onesie: I'm really fast.". 

_ I'm going to need to invest in a Sonic onesie. Except I can't, because I'm _ _ about to be shot. Fuck, those are terrible last thoughts.  _

Out of desperation, he grabbed the lid of the spray bottle and twisted it off, before punching Connor in the gut. The angel doubled over, and the holy water spilled out of the bottle. Wilbur scrambled away from the spill, trying to keep from making contact.

He ran through the doors and into the bus station.

Some of the holy water had gotten on his coat, and he awkwardly shrugged it off in a corner, which was a shame. He'd really liked the aesthetic of having a trench coat. Sure, he could glamour another one in a few seconds, but it wouldn't feel the same.

Connor walked towards him, and Wilbur glared.

"You made me lose my trench coat!"

"Again, sorry about all of this, it was just business.". Connor held out his arm in an almost peaceful gesture. And Wilbur, tired and overconfident, made the first stupid decision for the day. He took the peace offering and took Connor's hand.

The white-hot pain nearly knocked him to the ground. 

There had been less than a drop of holy water on his hand, but it was more than enough to stop Wilbur from breathing for a few minutes. 

In and of itself, that was fine. He didn't need to breathe to stay alive. All that he had to do was  _ stay away from holy things, what had he done. _

In the background, Connor was frantically apologizing and claiming that he "didn't mean to do that". Wilbur wondered distantly why he'd still be lying to him.

_ And here I was thinking that there were one or two decent angels. How laughable. No one's decent 14 years from Armageddon. Not humans, not angels, and not me. _

Wilbur shoved Connor away and walked up to the ticket counter. His hands were shaking and his words all over the place, but somehow he managed to convey that he wanted to take a bus back to town and pay for it. 

_ If I can get back to my house, I should be okay. Or, at the very least, not dead.  _

The bus ride was tricky. For one, part of the route was along Fundy's cursed highway (one of the demon’s more useless inventions), so things were significantly slowed down. Also, everything felt far away and cold, and it was a bit difficult to keep focus on which stop was his.

It took far too much time to reach town, and even more to make his way back to his street.

On auto-pilot, he ended up at House #1 first, panicking slightly when neither Tommy nor Phil was inside.

Trying to keep calm, he checked House #2, and thankfully That Weird Guy (he knew his name was Technoblade, but that was a ridiculous name, and he'd been thinking of him as That Weird Guy for so long that it was hard to stop) was keeping watch over Tommy. Relief washed over him.

_ I don't know what I'd do if he got hurt. _

That Weird Guy seemed fine with taking care of Tommy for a little longer, which Wilbur was secretly grateful for. 

He also seemed convinced that Wilbur was going to pass out, which was hilarious, seeing as Wilbur didn't need to sleep or breathe unless he wanted to. After a brief moment of rest in a bush, he made his way to his house.

He tried to unlock the door, but his hands were trembling too much to use the key, and he was seeing two locks instead of one, and he slowly slid to the ground.

_ Is this actually how it's happening?  _

_ I _ _ know I'm not long for this world, but I always expected a better exit. Something with fanfare and sacrifice and meaning.  _

_ O _ _ ur so-called "immortality" is a conditional one. The instant we dare to touch something holy, it all goes, and there's no soul or afterlife for us castaways. _

_ I wish I was human. _

Wilbur struggled to look up at the sky. It was still daytime, and the stars weren't out yet. That was a shame, he'd worked hard on those. He shivered.

_ I know we're doomed to fail come Doomsday. I know that there's no way out of Your ineffable plan. But I'm trying to make directorial choices with your script, trying to make a good story. This is a terrible ending. _

It was quiet. That was probably for the best.

_ Do I deserve it? _

_ Of course I do. _

_ But I didn't always, and you're not blameless either. _

_ I hope that Tommy's too young to remember me. _

The world was cold, but peacefully quiet, and the pain was mostly beyond his reach. This wasn't bad, all things considered. Wilbur's eyes closed.

A few minutes later, he was rudely awakened by Phil shaking him.

"Are you okay? I mean, obviously you’re not, but can you stand?". He opened one eye.

"I'm fine.". Phil laughed at that. Part of Wilbur considered laughing along, while what was left of his common sense informed him that Phil sounded like he was laughing out of shock.

"Fine? Will, there were a few seconds where I thought you were dead!"

"Well, as you can see, I'm not. If you could just unlock the door, that would be great.". The door unlocked behind him. He struggled to rise to his feet, and Phil caught his arm, supporting him.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Minor business conflict."

" _ There is a hole in your hand. _ ”

"That happens at my job sometimes. I'm in the mafia."

"Have you considered other career options?"

"The insurance benefits are too good.". Phil set Wilbur down on a couch and left the room. As was to be expected.

Wilbur reached under the couch cushions to grab a hidden cigarette lighter. 

He had no intention of smoking while bleeding out, obviously. The cigarette lighter had been modified slightly, another one of Fundy's inventions. The fire of the lighter was no regular thing, but rather hellfire. Hopefully, that would be enough of a cure.

The warmth of the hellfire slowly and painfully chipped away at the ice and purity, and he took a few seconds to internally mock god. Maybe a bit of a hubris-related thing to do, but Wilbur was glad to live another day, and that meant spite.

For whatever reason, Phil stuck around to make sure he was okay. 

Wilbur hadn't quite expected that. 

He wasn't in the best state, but Phil seemed to believe that it was better for him to be talking than unconscious. 

So, in a half-delirious state, he rambled about mercy, and free will, and falling.

And when he whispered that he missed flying, he could have sworn that Phil agreed.

Anyway, aside from dramatic moments like those, life was okay.

Wilbur was there for every milestone in Tommy's life, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He was there for his first few words when Tommy was a baby (the first word was "kaboom", but the second was "Wilby").

He was there for his first steps, and once Tommy learned to walk there was no stopping him from running everywhere.

He was there for preschool graduations and first days of kindergarten and beyond.

Of course, Wilbur's job was to teach the kid to want to kill god, and he tried to do that too. 

From the moment Tommy learned how to read, Wilbur kept trying to get him to read Paradise Lost. Sadly, he was six and Milton wasn't to his taste at the moment. 

Wilbur wasn't sure how well he did on that front, but he tried. 

Either way, he wasn't sure if he raised a suitably evil kid, but he raised a good one. Not good as in  _ morally _ , obviously. Tommy was still a rascal at times, but he was the rascal that Wilbur cared about.

Wilbur was the one to teach him how to ride a bike. 

Tommy was so determined to learn how to do it, and he kept getting up even when his knees were scratched up from crashing. 

When putting on band-aids, sometimes Wilbur would slightly heal him. Not so much that he wouldn't know to be careful, but just enough to ease the pain a bit.

Wilbur also taught him other valuable life skills like lock picking, lying, good taste in music, and how to pick pockets. The stuff every kid needed to know!

His reports to the Lords of Hell became less clinical, and more chatting about  _ Tommy finally figured out how to ride a bike, and he's getting good grades in language arts, and he likes musicals too, and he's such a wonderful kid. _

They'd mostly stare in confusion, and awkwardly ask him how that was helping Satan.

And he knew that every birthday meant that the two of them were one year closer to Doomsday. 

And he knew that he wasn't going to survive Doomsday.

Wilbur had a feeling since the moment he first fell that he'd have to redeem himself or go out in a blaze of glory. And, frankly, he felt too bitter towards his creator to aim for a redemption arc.

So, when Tommy turned eight, he knew that he had eight years left to live. And when he was ten, he knew he had six, and so on. That didn't stop Wilbur from baking a cake for him and singing.

He cared about Tommy quickly, and he later grew to care for Phil, and maybe even he would be vaguely upset if That Weird Guy died. 

Wilbur couldn't call this place a home, and he couldn't say they were his family, but it was the closest he'd ever gotten to that sort of thing. 

And sometimes, he could fool himself into thinking it could stay like this.

Once, he'd made the mistake of trying to taunt Schlatt about it.

They'd been talking, and Schlatt made one too many jabs about how he spent his days babysitting. He'd mocked the patch that Tommy had clumsily sewed into his new trenchcoat, and Wilbur got a bit annoyed.

"At least I've been doing my job and spending time with the antichrist! You've been completely useless down here, just sitting around in that lawn chair and drinking. I mean, it makes everything easier for me, but the fact still remains that I've been getting stuff done while you've been treating this like a paid vacation.". Schlatt looked him dead in the eyes, setting down his glass.

"You think that you were smart, getting close to their family? Turning up the charm, making friends, stealing my goddamn Hot Pockets (which I'm still mad about)?". He laughed in his face.

"Wilbur, you're a fucking moron. You say that I haven't spent enough time around the family? You've spent  _ way _ too much, and it's given you a bleeding heart."

"I don't have a-"

"Tommy's going to die in six years, you know. Kid's cute, but he's not going to survive the end of the world. He's a child, and God is God, and he's going to get smote like burnt chicken. It's just the facts.". Wilbur recoiled from him, hissing his next words through his teeth.

" _ Shut up. _ "

"Did you even think about anything besides your own stupid martyrdom? Or were you too busy playing house and getting attachments? Face it, Wilbur: It's lunchboxes today, graves tomorrow.". 

For once, Wilbur had nothing to say. No clever response, nothing. Just pure panic. 

He touched the patch on his trench coat covering his heart, looking to the sky.

_ Please. I know you're a bastard. I know you hate me, and I hate you, and that can't change. But if you gave me some sign, some promise that you wouldn't hurt Tommy, I'd do anything. _

As always, there was no response.

Wilbur cared about Tommy, and he knew, and even if it was a weakness he couldn't stop. 

A ll of Tommy's family cared about him, wanting him protected and alive.

But Schlatt?

Schlatt didn't give a damn about Tommy, and he never would.

There was no care weighing him down. And that meant that he had infinitely more options than everyone else.


End file.
